


five times celine loves damien, and one time she doesn’t

by parsnipit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier
Genre: Angst, Gen, also Aesthetically not capitalizing everything, also celine and damien are platonic, i can't even explain that one it just seemed like the right thing to do, i just really love the idea of them as siblings ahhh, like a ridiculous amount of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: five times and ways celine shows her love to her baby brother, and one time she really, really doesn’t.





	five times celine loves damien, and one time she doesn’t

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: insecurities, mentions of death/violence, mentions of vomit/illness, arguments, angsty ending

_i._

the first time she sees him, he’s swaddled in a pale blue blanket and cradled tenderly in their mother’s arms. he’s sleeping, his tiny chest rising and falling steadily and his lips pursed into a tiny frown. “celine,” her mother says, and she’s smiling—a bright sunshine smile, warm and comfortable and absolutely stunning.

celine wonders if she’ll ever be able to smile like that.

 “come here,” mother says, sitting down on the couch. “james, help her up.”

 celine’s stepfather helps her climb onto the couch to sit next to her mother and the baby. “there you go, sweetheart,” he says, and when celine looks from him to the baby she can see the similarities—their eyes are the same shape, and their noses, and their chins. their hair is also the same color. all four of them have dark hair, but celine and her mother have hair like shadows where james and the baby have hair like coffee.

 “what’s its name?” celine asks, leaning against her mother’s arm and frowning at the baby.

 “his name is damien,” mother says, shifting the baby so that she can reach out and card one hand through celine’s hair. “he’s your baby brother. say hello.”

 “hello, damien,” celine says.

 “here, hold out your arms.” mother waits until celine tentatively stretches out her arms, then hands damien to her. “there you go. hold him close, be careful you don’t drop him.”

 celine cradles damien carefully to her chest—he’s heavier than he looks, a warm bundle in her arms, and when she shifts him he moves, snuffling softly. his eyelids flutter, then open. his eyes are an opaque gray-blue entirely unlike their mother’s or his father’s. “why are they that color?” celine asks as damien blinks sleepily at her.

 “oh, most babies’ eyes are. they’ll probably get darker when he gets older. your eyes were that color when you were little, too, and just look at them now,” james says, reaching out and ruffling her hair. “do you want me to take him?”

 celine gazes down at damien—at this strange, tiny, vulnerable creature that’s stumbled so suddenly into her life—and realizes, for the very first time, that she is capable of loving someone besides her parents. “no,” she says, moving one hand to gently, gently push damien’s downy hair away from his eyes. “i can hold him.”

 and she does.

  _ii._

 it is the morning of damien’s very first day of school, and he acts as though the world is falling down around his ears. he gets dressed at mother’s urging, and celine helps him comb his hair. he’s just started to brush his teeth when, completely out of the blue, he begins to cry. he sits down in the middle of the bathroom floor, his mouth still full of minty foam, and wails as though he has been struck by a particularly horrible grievance.

 “what?” celine asks, through her own mouthful of toothpaste—she is momentarily convinced that her brother is dying. “what is it? what’s wrong?”

 “i don’t wanna go,” he says, his words blurred by foamy spit and his sobs. “i don’t wanna, i can’t.”

 celine rinses her mouth out and then sits down beside him, smoothing out her dress. “well, you have to,” she says, quite simply. there’s no point in crying about something that can’t be changed.

 damien looks at her, eyes bright with tears and lower lip wobbling. “why?”

 “because mother said.”

 “why did she say?”

 “because education is good for children.”

 “why?”

 “because it helps strengthen their minds,” celine says, quite proud of the fact that she knows that—they’d learned about it in science class just last week.

 “why?”

 that’s a harder one. celine frowns, and she instructs damien to rinse his mouth out to buy herself some time. when he sits back down, his mouth clean of foam, she says, “well, it’s because the brain is a muscle and learning is like working it out, so it gets stronger, like your arms or legs.”

 damien pauses as though to ponder that, pursing his lips in that familiar little frown. “oh. well what if—what if it doesn’t get stronger?”

 “it will. that’s just science.”

 “but what if it doesn’t?”

 “then i guess you stay like this forever,” celine says, shrugging.

 damien’s eyes begin to well with tears again. “so that means i’m stupid?”

 “what? no.” celine scowls at him. “why would you be stupid?”

 “because i can’t—i can’t  _read,”_ damien says, wiping a hand furiously across his eyes. “mother says most children can read at least a little when they go to kindergarten but i  _can’t,_ so that means i’m stupid and what if i don’t get smart like you?”

 celine stares at him for a moment, then says, “you’re not stupid, damien. maybe it’s just harder for you to learn some things and even if you never learn to read there’s gonna be  _something_ you’re good at—like asking lots of silly  _why_ questions.”

 “they’re not silly,” damien protests, wiping his nose off on his sleeve. “but i want to learn to read, though.”

 “okay,” celine says. “so i’ll teach you.”

 and she does.

  _iii._

 celine is sitting in her room, twirling the rose mark had given her between her fingers—he had looked and acted particularly dashing tonight, she thinks. he’d been dressed up in his finest suit, and he had smelled like the lilies of the valley, sweet and powerful. he had, naturally, been crowned prom king, and she, at his side, had been the queen. a pleasant, if unsurprising, turn of events.

 she is startled from her thoughts by a sudden knock at her door. “celine?” william calls, his voice muffled by the wood. “may i speak with you a moment?”

 “of course,” celine says, setting her rose aside as william slips into her room. “what do you need?”

 “it’s—ah, it’s damien,” william says, frowning.

 celine is instantly alert—william frowning whilst mentioning damien? that’s gravely concerning. “what about him? is he alright?”

 “i’m afraid his gal stood him up, and he’s not taking it well. i tried to talk to him, but—well, you might have better luck.”

 “i doubt i can do anything that you couldn’t,” celine says, but she rises from her bed nevertheless—if damien needs her, she can no more refuse than she could cut off her own foot. “i’ll go to him. i beg you not to worry, dear will. a high school sweetheart isn’t the end of everything.”

 “no,” will says, offering her a tiny smile. “i suppose not. best of luck. do let me know how he is, the poor chap.”

 celine finds damien out on the balcony, gazing up at the sky. the moonlight dusts his hair and shoulders with pale silver light. he’s cradling a white rose between his palms. “damien?” celine says. she keeps her voice quiet, but it still seems too loud in the crisp silence of the night.

 “did will send you?” damien asks.

 “he did.” celine comes to stand beside her brother, leaning against the balcony railing. “he does care about you so.”

 “at least someone does,” damien mutters, tearing his gaze away from the moon and fixing it on his rose. he plucks one of its delicate petals off, bruising it between his fingers.

 “don’t be foolish. lots of people care about you, dames. mother does, and your father, and mark and will and i certainly do.”

“that’s not the same. you all are practically obligated to make some semblance of care towards me.”

“i assure you, brother mine, i feel no such obligation. don’t you know me? if i didn’t truly love you, i would drop you just as quickly as i would drop a fly.”

“comforting,” damien says, his tone dry. “truly, celine, you are the epitome of wisdom when it comes to relationships.”

“so i am, which is why you should trust me when i say that though this stings now, it will mean nothing to you in a few years. why, you’ll hardly remember this night when you’ve settled down with a wife and flung a few horrifying mini-damiens out into the world.”

“oh, the  _romance.”_ damien sighs, propping his chin in his hand. “i just—i don’t know what i did wrong, you know? i thought she liked me. i certainly liked her.”

“i’m sure you did nothing wrong. that brat was just—”

 _“celine.”_ damien looks at her, aghast. “she’s not a brat.”

celine clears her throat. “oh, forgive me. how unladylike. that bitch—”

_“celine.”_

celine grins, reaching out and ruffling damien’s hair. “alright, alright. but she certainly doesn’t know a good thing. you don’t have a bad bone in your body, dames, and you’re going to make someone a fine husband someday. i’m just glad it’s not going to be her, because she obviously doesn’t appreciate your superior qualities.”

“superior qualities.” damien scoffs, shaking his head. “yeah, sure.”

“oh, shut up,” celine says, elbowing him with not a little bit of genuine anger. “you have lots of superior qualities. all the superior qualities.”

“like what?” it’s phrased as a challenge, but celine sees it for what it really is—a plea, and one she’s more than happy to answer.

“well, for starters, you’re an absolute softie,” celine says, tugging damien’s rose from his fingers and smoothing its petals out gently. “you’re a fucking sweetheart. you’re honest and you’re kind and yeah, you’re ambitious, but you’re ambitious for  _good.”_

he’s everything celine will never be—and god, if she can’t nurture those qualities in herself, she’ll be damned if she’s not going to nurture them in him.

“you always want what’s best for everyone, and you feel genuine grief for people when they suffer. i will never understand the amount of empathy—the amount of  _compassion—_ you’re capable of feeling for people, and i will never stop being proud of you for it. you’re ridiculously smart, well-mannered, and loyal. damien, you’re pretty much the perfect human being.”

damien shakes his head and refuses to look at her. “that’s not—i’m not—”

“well,” celine says, frowning and tugging on damien’s shoulder until he faces her. there are tears in his eyes. “there is one little imperfection—you’re too fucking stubborn.”

 _“i’m_ the stubborn one?” damien laughs, although it’s a shaky sound. “god, i love you, celine.”

“i know,” celine says, smoothing out his suit lapels. she slides the stem of the rose through the top buttonhole of his right lapel, pushing it down until the rose sits delicately against his suit. “how could you not, silly boy? now come on. ice cream on me. i’ll cheer you up.”

and she does.

_iv._

celine has never been humble, and she knows that—but her proudest moment is not one of her own accomplishments. no, it’s one of damien’s. she is right there with her brother the entire time he runs for mayor, watching him plunge after his dreams with all the energy and enthusiasm she’s ever seen.

but she also sees the way too many nights spent writing speeches weigh on him. she sees the way his eyelids and shoulders droop when they’re alone—and then sees the way he perks right back up when he’s in the public eye, charming them all right off of their feet. she sees the way he works tirelessly to discover their city’s problems, sees the way he struggles to fix them, sees the way he hungers for justice, for peace, for  _good._

she sees him trying, and she is so, so proud.

when the election results are announced, she’s right beside him, wrapping him up in the biggest hug she can possibly manage—he’s taller than her now, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to lift him off of his feet. he’ll always be her baby brother, after all. (she doesn’t quite manage to lift him, but he does manage to lift her, spinning her around in a circle and laughing giddily—laughing in a way she hasn’t heard him laugh in far too long.)

“i’m the mayor,” he says, and the absolute happiness in his eyes is all celine has ever wanted to see. “i’m the  _mayor.”_

“yes,” celine says, laughing and patting his shoulder. “well done, mr. mayor. your public awaits.”

(and if celine cries at damien’s first public address as mayor—well, no one needs to know.)

but the job wears on damien, as she knew it would. he never quite loses that spark in his eyes, though. when celine asks, he simply smiles and says, “it’s exhausting, yes, but—but i’m making the world a better place, celine, and that’s worth it. that’s worth everything.”

she wishes, sometimes, that she could see the world through damien’s eyes.

but, on occasion, even her hopeful damien becomes overwhelmed. one night he stumbles into the manor, shucks his suit jacket off (doesn’t even bother to hang it up, which is celine’s first clue that something is wrong) and collapses on the couch.

“hey, dames. not that it’s not great to see you, but what are you doing here? i thought you were working on the plans for the new school?” she asks.

damien groans.

“bad day?”

damien groans again.

“yes, alright, mr. eloquent.” celine gets up and goes to the kitchen, setting the kettle on to boil. she lets damien wallow as she makes his favorite tea, then brings it to him in a blue mug. “here. drink this.”

damien sits up, glares at the tea as though it’s personally spited him, and then sips on it. “thanks,” he mutters.

“so what seems to be the problem?” celine asks, taking a seat beside him.

“i’m no good at this.”

“c’mon, dames, that’s not constructive. what, specifically, aren’t you good at?”

 _“everything.”_ damien sets his tea down and flops facedown onto the couch again, groaning yet again—and mark calls  _her_ a drama queen.

celine sighs and reaches out, rubbing damien’s back gently. “alright, grumpy. we’ll talk later. i’m reading  _spoon river anthology._ would you like to listen?”

damien nods.

“alright.” celine clears her throat and picks up her book, then finishes off the poem she had been on. “‘so, you see, the house, from the day i was born, was only waiting for me…’”

damien listens to her read for a long while. eventually he shuffles to sit up, sipping once again on his tea, and finally, as she knew he would, he explains, “i’m not good at helping teachers plan out curriculum i don’t even understand. it’s been far too long since i was in elementary school.”

“you cried about not being able to read. do you remember that?”

damien smiles sheepishly. “indeed.”

“well, let me see what you’re working with. i’ll try to help you.”

and she does.

_v._

celine doesn’t know why she’s so nervous—this is her baby brother she’s talking about. he’s seen her at her lowest, seen her feverish and vomiting, seen her throwing a fit because he stole her toys, seen her weeping over silly boyfriends in the fifth grade. but today, somehow, impossibly, she is nervous to speak with him.

but she is celine, and she has never allowed fear to rule her before.

“damien?” she asks, leaning on the door to his office. “may i speak with you a moment?”

damien sets down his pen and paper immediately, looking up at her. “celine.” he beams at her. “how lovely to see you here. what do you need?”

celine slips inside, shutting the door behind her and taking a seat at his desk. “i—well, i actually have a question about the wedding.”

“the wedding? your wedding?”

“no, your wedding—yes, my wedding, silly. what other wedding would i be talking about?”

damien sticks his tongue out at her.

“you’re such a child. honestly, i don’t know what they were thinking, letting you run the city,” celine says, but she’s grinning.

“neither do i. it must be my ravishing good looks that convinced them,” damien says smugly. “now what’s your question?”

celine takes a deep breath, then hesitates, and she can see nervousness growing in damien’s eyes—he always does get anxious when she does. he’s far too emotionally sensitive. well, best not to let him suffer too long. steeling herself, celine says in a rush, “i was wondering if you would like to walk me down the aisle.”

damien stares at her for a long moment. celine wonders if he’s breathing.

“damien? you don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course, but—”

“no, no, no,” damien says, springing up from his chair and setting his hands on her shoulders. “i would be delighted, i would be more than delighted, i should like nothing more, but—but why me? why not have my father do it? i’m sure he would happy to, and it’s more traditional.”

celine shakes her head. “don’t get me wrong, i love james, but—but i want  _you_ to do it, damien. you’ve always been there. you’ve always supported me. you’ve always loved me. you taught me what a good person could look like, and i’ll never be able to repay you for that. if there’s any man in the world who could possibly have such a claim on my heart as to be able to give it away, it’s you.”

damien stares at her, his eyes bright with tears and his lip wobbling. god, he always has been such a softie. “yes,” he says, his voice a hushed and reverent thing. “yes, celine. i would love to do that, if that’s what you want.”

“it is.” celine wraps her arms around damien’s neck and pulls him close, breathing in his familiar scent—wet pine and sandalwood, calm and secure. “thank you, damien. thank you.”

damien hugs her back, and god, he has her heart—he has her heart in a way no other person has ever been able to have it. not her father, or her stepfather, or will, or mark—only damien. only her dearest, darling baby brother.

and when he walks her down the aisle—when he gives her away to mark with tears in his eyes—she thinks her heart might break the tiniest bit.

at the reception, she dances with him—the two of them must make a resplendent picture, she thinks. damien is in his suit, a brilliant white rose on his right lapel, and she is in her wedding dress, an elegant white affair that swirls around her feet as they dance. damien is humming along to the music as he leads her, and as she looks at him, she remembers.

she remembers a tiny bundle, wrapped in a blue blanket.

she remembers a boy crying on the floor of a bathroom with toothpaste in his mouth.

she remembers a teenager leaning against a balcony railing, swathed in moonlight and fresh heartbreak.

she remembers a man wearing a mayor’s ribbon and fighting, fighting, fighting for good—always for good.

she remembers damien.

“i love you,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “i love you so much, damien.”

and she does.

_vi._

celine dies. celine is ripped into a million pieces—shredded, torn, dissolved. the darkness picks out the pieces it wants and stuffs them into a corpse. it shoves the rest of her into a shattered mirror and leaves her there to rot.

but in that corpse, she is not alone. the darkness comes with her, and it tastes like stale blood, cold and metallic. it is all-consuming. it washes out everything else. she forgets the taste of happiness, of hope. of love. the darkness holds her together, the glue between the fragments of herself that remain. she cleaves tightly to it—cleaves so tightly that she cannot tell where the dark ends and she begins.

there are fragments in that darkness that do not belong to her, however. fragments from someone calmer, someone more rational, someone with the ability to appear gentle and reasonable. someone who understands emotions and how to manipulate them. someone useful. she does not know his name.

(and in some distant, faint part of herself, she is terrified by this.)

but because he is useful, he stays. he, too, bleeds into the darkness—or perhaps the darkness bleeds into him. she can’t quite tell anymore. but he and the darkness become inseparable things, and then she and he follow suit. there is no ending. there is no beginning. they flow into each other as seamlessly as water—he and she and the dark.

they decide to look like his body. a man will get farther in this world than a corpse or a woman, after all. then they name themselves after the dark. it feels most right. it feels like home. it feels like truth.

and most of the time, dark’s fragments get along quite nicely. they can hardly be called fragments anymore—they’ve been smoothed over by time and by the darkness until they’re as elegant and polished as river stones. but there  _are_ edges remaining, and once in a rare while, those edges will clash against each other, and he  ~~she they we~~  will crack.

those are the times when dark retreats to his  ~~her their our~~ room and tries to hold himself together, listening to the clamor inside of his own head. it sounds like screaming.

“well maybe if you weren’t such a spineless piece of shit!” she’ll say, tearing viciously at the pieces of him. she wants to find his pride. she wants to destroy it. tear it apart, like plucking petals from a rose. hers is better. hers is all they need. all dark needs.

“maybe if you thought before you acted, you fucking bitch!” he’ll shout, and her rage, violent and red, will flare—it will flare and flare and flare, it will never stop flaring. “maybe if you weren’t so arrogant! god, i hate you.”

“yeah, well i fucking hate you too!”

and she does.


End file.
